


Ill Met

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Euriarty, F/M, mention of an underage relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: The dark and twisted ship I never knew I needed until TFP.
Relationships: Eurus Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: Euriarty fics





	Ill Met

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for mention of an underage relationship.

"Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania."

She rolls her eyes. "Don't quote Shakespeare to me, James."

He drops his head on her shoulder, puts his arms around her waist, links his hands together and gives her an affectionate squeeze. "You used to love it, back in the day."

She pushes him away with one well-placed elbow to the midriff and returns her attention to the wall of data she's spent many painstaking hours pinning into place. "Back in the day we were teenagers, James. Well, I was. You only almost were. And you were a little shit then, too."

He laughs, a low, mocking sound, and she hears him moving around behind her. Pacing, his hands idly touching various items littering the flat surfaces of her sitting room. She doesn't have to see it, to hear it, to know that's what he's doing; he's done it a dozen, a hundred, a thousand times before.

"I may have been a little shit, but I was _your_ little shit," he reminds her. Right on schedule. Even now she can hear the undercurrent of hurt beneath the mockery in his voice. "As I recall, we both really enjoyed you making a man out of me."

She allows herself a brief smile at the memory his words conjure up: the two of them in his bed, in hers, in the nurse's station after manufacturing an emergency to draw everyone to the other end of the ward…ah, yes. "Good times," she acknowledges in a murmur.

"Care to relive them?"

She shakes her head, still refusing to look at him. Because to look at him, right now, will weaken her resolve. She'll give in, let him play Oberon to her Titania, and the game is too important to allow for distractions. Even pleasant distractions - and James Moriarty is a very, very pleasant distraction. When he wants to be. "Not now," she says, relenting just the tiniest bit. Feeding him hope - and only partially meaning it as manipulation.

She never meant to develop actual affection for James, all those years ago. She'd very cold-bloodedly set out to seduce him, to use him not only to alleviate the tedium of being locked into a mental institution but to hone her skills at manipulation, to experiment with seduction. But they'd been far more alike than she'd expected, a pleasant surprise, and had continued their affiliation over the years after they'd been judged rehabilitated enough to be released.

'Rehabilitated.' She chuckles inwardly. As if. No, the two of them had simply learned to fool the idiots in charge - the earnest, well-meaning therapists, the nurses, the psychiatrists overseeing their treatment…everyone but their own families. Well, Mummy and Dad had wanted to believe their little angel was all better and safe to roam the world again, but Mycroft had never bought it and Sherlock had been too traumatized by her girlish antics to even acknowledge her existence.

Poor little baby brother. She looks forward to seeing for herself the kind of man he's become, rather than gleaning it second-hand from James - admittedly biased - or the public record.

James comes close again, hovering at her back, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath against her neck. "So," he says, his voice a low purr as he studies the wall in front of them. "What game will you be playing against your family, who still think you're safely stowed away at Sherrinford?"

Ah yes, Sherrinford. The secure government facility where Mycroft had her whisked away to rot after her not-so-girlish antics involving espionage and unsanctioned MI6 actions against 'innocent bystanders'. Too bad Myc didn't share her opinion that there was no such thing. "A long game," she answers James, who once again rests his chin on her shoulder and his arms around her waist. She tolerates it this time, recognizing it for the game he's playing. "So tell me, James." She turns her head enough to meet his knowing, mocking gaze. "What do you know about a man named Culverton Smith?"


End file.
